The Blue Jay
by 4luv4evr428
Summary: A sequel to "Pale"; this is an alternate timeline to the one which I consider to be "canon" to my stories. Ricky's deep grief cause him to nearly make a grave mistake, leading Rick to make a bold decision. WARNING: Story includes a suicide attempt and may be a trigger for some. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO FOLLOWED/REVIEWED THIS STORY! I can't wait to hear your final comments!
1. Chapter 1

I.

"Dad, if you want me to stay a few more days, I can, it's no problem…" Rick spoke to his father, who sat with his back to him on the patio. He was looking out at nothing in particular. The last week since Lucy's funeral was like nothing either of them had experienced before. They had seen an outpouring of sympathy and care from their friends and the community and they had had moments of laughter at certain memories. There would be breaks in Ricky's mostly silent demeanor, when he would randomly speak wistfully and dreamily about some memory of his wife. In those moments, his eyes would light up and he seemed transported to another place and time. But as quickly as the moments appeared, Ricky would return to his withdrawn state, his eyes appearing dead to the world.

Rick had tried to pack away some of Lucy's things from the bedroom, thinking that perhaps his father would sleep better without the constant reminders which were visible in whichever direction he turned his head. But Ricky had stopped him, replacing her small items to the same positions where Lucy's hands had last left them.

Rick had tried to get Ricky to play the guitar with him one night as they sat under the night sky. He had even asked his father to sing. But the music could not be forced from him. It had seemed as though Ricky had forgotten how to play or sing a note.

Rick had asked his father to come back to New York with him; to close up the house for a while and enjoy the club with him. To work with the band and take in the city with him. But Ricky simply shook his head, thanked him for the offer and went back to his empty stare and internal thoughts.

The sound of his son's voice was the only thing that brought Ricky back to the present in these last days, and hearing him now, offering to stay, Ricky turned his face toward it again. "No, son. You have to get back to your life. How long can I keep you from that?"

Rick walked around to sit in front of him. "Dad, don't say things like that. I'll stay for as long as you need me. And my offer about coming to New York still stands…"

Ricky looked up toward the sky, where a blue jay sat on a high branch, chirping loudly. "I want you to go. You need to go," he stated firmly.

Rick followed his father's gaze up to the tree in time to see the bird fly away, dropping them again into silence. "I'm worried about you. I don't think I should leave you alone here."

Ricky stood up shakily. He had seemed to grow so frail in such a short time. "I'm gonna go lie down. Dun't worry about me. Go back to New York whenever you need to."

Rick sighed as he watched his father disappear into the house. He did need to get back to New York. He'd left his trusted friend and drummer, Roberto, in charge of the club for too long already. He was torn between his responsibility to the business that his father had entrusted to him and his responsibility to that father. He ran a hand through his hair and spoke under his breath. "God, what do I do now?"

II.

Ricky walked into the bedroom that he had shared with his wife of thirty-three years. Every day that he stayed in this room without her, he felt himself growing more bitter. He was angry at himself for not recognizing sooner that she'd needed to see a doctor. He was angry at her for not recognizing it herself…or for refusing to recognize it. He was angry at the world for continuing to move as though nothing had happened.

He looked down at the bed, where Lucy's pink robe lay rumpled next to his pillow; lying with it was the only way he could get even the little sleep he could muster during the night. And now he was angry even at it, for beginning to lose the scent of his wife from its fibers. He sat at the edge of the bed and took it into his hands, looking at the faint spots that had been left in the silk by his tears. He looked over toward the closet and felt what seemed like an irrational moment of relief that there was an entire wardrobe of her clothes that may still carry Lucy's familiar fragrance.

Placing the robe carefully near his pillow, he stood up and went to the closet, opening the door with renewed energy, as though he were going to find his wife, herself, standing on the other side. He pulled the chain that hung from the ceiling, lighting the bulb that illuminated the treasures inside Lucy's closet.

Ricky stood before the rack of clothes for a moment. He winced as he heard his own voice in his memory, admonishing Lucy for spending what he perceived to be an exorbitant amount of money on clothes. There were certainly times when he either gifted her with beautiful clothing or gave her his blessing to buy whatever she wished, he reasoned. "But you were a brute to her other times," he said out loud, referring to the times he ranted at her about her spending. "You could've let her buy whatever she wanted and still have the money you have now," he continued scolding himself as he stared at the contents of the closet. "What good is that money now? Who cares? You should've let her have every dress and hat in New York!"

He pawed through the dresses, looking at them one by one and remembering the sight of his wife in every one of them. They were varied between casual dresses, smart skirt suits and formal gowns. He felt rationality leave him again as he smelled them and grew despondent that they were, for the most part, freshly laundered and hadn't been worn since their return from the cleaner. Any physical trace of Lucy was replaced by the fresh scent of clean clothes.

Ricky's exploration took him all the way to the far corner of the closet. The last thing hanging on the rack before he would hit the wall was a large garment back, zippered tightly up to the top of the hanger. He stared at it for some time, trying to figure out what could be inside and not wanting to open it. Finally, curiosity overwhelmed his hesitation and he pulled gently from the rack, bringing it into the light. He carried it gingerly into the bedroom, where the sunlight from the nearby window splashed onto the garment bag.

He fought with the very old zipper, which was snug and partially rusted into place. He turned, remembering that there was a hook on the closet door, and affixed the hanger and garment to it. Now with both hands free and feeling determined to see what was encapsulated in this bag, Ricky pulled relentlessly on the zipper. He focused his grief and anger into the task, tugging at it until he heard the snap of metal and the small piece separated from the bag between his fingers.

He noticed, however, that the teeth of the zipper had begun to separate. Ricky dropped the small mechanism onto the nearby vanity and with both hands, pulled the zipper open until the garment bag fell to the floor.

Lucy's bright white wedding gown, with its intricate embroidery and crisp taffeta, seemed to glisten in the light, to which it hadn't been exposed for more than thirty years.

Ricky stared at it, unsure of how to feel. His hand slipped up to touch the waist of the gown and the tactile memory of his arm encircling his wife in that gown on the day they were married overcame him. He breathed in and happily found the traces of the perfume Lucy had worn that day, having been perfectly sealed in the bag's environment for all the years they'd been married.

He pulled the dress from the hanger and held it in his arms as though Lucy occupied it. He was flooded with the memories of that day. He remembered slipping her wedding band onto her finger gently. He remembered the uncontrollably broad smile he wore when she was declared to be his wife, and that lovely, warm first kiss he graced upon her lips as her husband. He remembered the soft laughter that sprinkled their quiet conversation over the dinner that they barely touched that night, and the eagerness with which he whisked her away to the privacy of the suite where they whiled away much of the next two days. He remembered the first moment he saw her nude figure before him, how she was a vision of perfectly sculpted porcelain, and how her sweet red lips breathed his name as he made love to her.

Ricky was warmed by his remembrances, until the cold harshness of reality washed over him. His arms were wrapped around an empty dress; without Lucy gracing it, it was just that. The wedding band that he had so lovingly placed on her hand was in the ground now, with her. He could no longer bring himself to smile now; in fact, only his tears were uncontrollable at this point, and her lips would never kiss him or speak his name again.

He looked at the gown in his hands and the darkest feelings he'd ever known rushed through him. He let the dress slip away from him and sink to the floor in a pile of white.

Ricky walked to the window, which overlooked the garden, waving the blue jay away from the glass as he approached. Rick was still sitting on the patio, seeming deep in thought.

Ricky walked slowly out of the bedroom and across the hall to the freshly cleaned bathroom. Rick had cleaned it the previous evening, making a half-hearted joke that it would've been Lucy's proudest moment as a mother.

Ricky stood in front of the sink and looked in the mirror. "You're an old man," he said to his reflection. "There are only two thin's that made your live worth livin' and one of 'em is dead. And you'll be a burden to the other one."

Not wanting to look at himself any longer, he opened the medicine cabinet, turning the mirror away. His razors sat on one of the shelves. Ricky took one casually from the cabinet and released the blade from the razor handle, turning it over in his fingers carefully. "Lucy…it wouldn't take long. I could be with you again very soon. I can't go on without you. But maybe I dun't have to…"

III.

Rick sat on the patio sullenly, thinking about his next course of action. Would he stay with his father a while longer and leave the club in someone else's care? Or would he go, as his father had all but demanded, and leave him here alone?

He scowled, annoyed as the blue jay sat on the windowsill above him, squawking loudly and incessantly. He looked up when it flew away as a figure came to the window and then moved away. Something in the way the shadow moved slowly away from the glass troubled Rick. He stood up slowly, feeling a heavy sense of dread fall over him.

He tried to brush the feeling off, dismissing it as a symptom of his grief and confusion. Even so, he wandered into the house. "Dad?" He received no response.

He went to the living room and was confronted with a still silence. "Dad," he called again as he began up the stairs. He quickened his pace when he heard a sound in the bathroom, not even sure of why the sound alarmed him.

Rick found himself standing in front of the open bathroom door. His father was standing calmly at the sink, staring at what appeared to be a razor blade and holding it precariously close to his wrist.

Rick swallowed hard and his heart pounded. But he spoke quietly, not wanting to startle his father into any sudden movements. "Dad…please…put that down and come talk to me."

Ricky turned his head to look at his son, the blade still positioned against his skin. He didn't speak. His eyes were so dull and so dark that Rick didn't recognize him.

Rick walked slowly into the bathroom. "Daddy, please give it to me." He held out his hand. "Todavia necesito a mi papa. Por favor no se lo llevara…"

Ricky blinked and he breathed for what seemed like the first time since Rick found him. He put the blade in Rick's outstretched hand and Rick exhaled shakily with relief.

Rick quietly reached into the cabinet and took the other blades off the shelf. "Dad, please come downstairs with me, ok?"

Ricky nodded, as if he was emerging from a dense fog.

As they walked out of the bathroom and turned toward the stairs, Rick looked into the bedroom across the hall, puzzled by the white fabric that lay in a large heap on the floor.

They descended the stairs, Rick keeping a hand on his father's shoulder. He led Ricky toward the couch. "Sit down, Dad."

Ricky sat down slowly and watched his son, who sat next to him.

"Dad…I don't really know what to say, except that…I need you. Do you have any idea what it would've done to me to come and find you on the floor? Because, if I had waited any longer to come in the house, I have a feeling it would've been too late. Am I right?"

Ricky's voice was calm and even. "I think so."

Rick looked down at the razors that he still held carefully in his hand. "Well, actually, now that I think about it, I do know what to say. I've made a decision. You're going to come with me to New York. For a while, until you're feeling more yourself and have time to clear your head. We'll close up the house, have someone come to mow the lawn and watch the place. We don't have to do anything else yet. Mom's things can stay where they are until we can make better decisions."

Ricky looked at his son, a flash of his indignant personality breaking through. "Oh? Who is the father here?"

Rick dropped the blades onto the nearby coffee table, matching his father's tone. "Right at this moment, it's not you."

Under any other circumstances, a retort such as that would've launched Ricky into a fit, full of his characteristic Cuban machismo. But today, Ricky knew that his son was right. He was a shell of himself and the blades which rested ominously on the table in front of him were evidence enough that he was not in control of his senses. Although he doubted that any amount of time spent in New York would make him feel more like "himself," he relented easily. "Alright. Whatever you say, son."


	2. Chapter 2

I.

Several days later, Rick was out in the driveway placing some boxes on the small pickup truck that he'd rented to transport his father's important belongings back to New York with them. It had been a struggle to get him ready to leave; none of the items in the house seemed important to him and after a lifetime of holding his music and the things he needed to create it on a pedestal, it was strange to see how indifferent he was now.

Rick pushed the last box into place and walked into the house. Ricky stood in the living room, where Rick had covered the furniture with white clothes in order to minimize the accumulation of dust. Rick put his hands in his pockets. "The truck is ready. How about you?"

Ricky breathed quietly. "Your mother loved this house. She loved it from the moment she saw it. I never saw her want anythin' more in her life." He looked at his son. "Well…besides you."

Rick looked at the floor for a moment before returning his eyes to his father. "I know," he replied quietly.

Ricky walked to the fireplace, where his conga drum was propped up against the brick. He lifted the strap to carry it across his shoulder, remembering that it had been with him since he left Cuba, always on his back, wherever he went. Where he and his drum would end up now seemed even more uncertain to him than it had when he got on the plane and left the island. "I'm ready."

II.

The ride to New York had been mostly quiet. Music flowed into the truck from the radio as Ricky looked out the window at the trees that whizzed past them on the rural highway. It was the same highway, he remembered, where they'd driven from New York to get married. And it was the same highway where they'd driven, this time with their little boy and his little dog, when they moved from New York and into the house that Ricky had purchased for his wife.

Eventually, the countryside gave way to the urban sprawl of the city. Ricky mused over how the city had changed since he'd first arrived in 1940. Some businesses had come and gone, others that had started out small and local were now considered iconic. More and more cars and taxis clogged the streets. Idlewild Airport had been renamed to honor an assassinated president. Just when it seemed that there was not an empty space left on any street, another skyscraper was being built. When the World Trade Center tower had been built the year before, New Yorkers marveled at its height and Ricky couldn't believe that there were plans to build an identical building right next to it. But there it was, surrounded by immense scaffolding as it was constructed magnificently toward the sky.

But for all the things that had changed, so much remained the same. Hot dog vendors still settled on highly traveled corners. Thousands of city dwellers still disappeared beneath the streets to ride the subway. And you could always tell when a tourist was among the crowd, because everyone else was annoyed that he wasn't walking fast enough. Ricky chuckled, for the first time in quite a while. He truly did love New York. But he covered his mouth to suppress the emergence of this happy reaction to the sight of it; he felt guilty, as though it was a betrayal to the tremendous grief in which he was still buried.

Rick noticed, having heard the small laugh and feeling glad for it. "You want a meatball sub? You love that deli down the street from the club…"

Ricky thought a moment. He was hungry. He was sure he'd lost weight in the last two weeks because his lack of desire to eat had outweighed his body's calls to do so; many times, Rick begged him to choke something down. And he did love that deli. When it had opened, he went there for the first time with Lucy. He'd had his first meatball sub before he really knew what to call it. "Yes, I'll share one with you."

III.

Rick carried a twelve inch meatball sub to the booth where Ricky sat looking out the window at the passersby on the street. He set it in the center of the table and sat across from his father. "It's really hot," he smiled as he cut it down the center with a plastic knife.

Ricky grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table, dividing them between himself and Rick. He picked up his half of the sub and bit into it carefully. As he swallowed the first bite, he sighed, his stomach grateful, finally, for the substantial food.

Rick watched him eat approvingly before taking a first bite of his own. "Do you want to go to the club?"

Ricky glanced out the window again. "Do you need to go today?"

Rick set his sandwich down and wiped his hands. "I don't HAVE to. It can wait until tomorrow, I just thought you might want to go."

Ricky nodded. "I'll come with you tomorrow." His eyes widened and he seemed to catch his breath as he continued looking out the window.

Rick followed his gaze out to the street. A young woman with curly red hair was standing with her back to them, hand outstretched as she hailed a taxi. From their vantage point, she could certainly have been mistaken for a young Lucy. But when she turned to look down the street, any resemblance to his mother disappeared quickly and he looked back to see his father deflated. Of course, there could've been no possibility on Earth that it was really her, but Ricky had clearly not allowed that reasoning to crush his hope.

Ricky turned to his son. "Do you think I'm goin' crazy?"

Rick swallowed another bite of his sub. "No, Dad, I don't think you're going crazy. I just think you need some time."

"Time," Ricky repeated. "I thought we'd have more of it. I met her so suddenly and that's the way she left me."

Rick folded his hands in front of him, conflicted about whether talking about his mother was good for Ricky or if it pressed him further into depression. He decided it would be better to encourage his father to remember her. "How did you meet her? No one ever told me." Rick was gratified in his decision when a smile crossed his father's face.

"I was appearin' at The Tropicana for the first time and I saw her in the front row while I was performin'. Ay, she was beautiful." Ricky continued, seeming to forget that Rick was there. "I'll never forget the way she looked that night. She had on a blue dress, but it wasn't as blue as those eyes of hers. As soon as the show was over, I looked for her, but she was gone! I went all over lookin' for her and it turned out that she was lookin' for me too, because we walked right into each other." Ricky laughed. "We spent the rest of the night talkin' and dancin' and…well, I fell in love with her right away. We got married two months later." He looked down at his hand and at the wedding band that he still wore with no intentions of taking it off. "I talk to her at night. My favorite time of day was when I got home late at night and we'd talk and…" He trailed off. "So I talk to her at night but I dunno if she hears me."

Rick looked at his father sadly. "I'm sure she does."

The two finished their shared sub in silence.

IV.

Ricky sat in the small spare bedroom in Rick's apartment. It was modestly furnished with some furniture that Rick had obtained in a hurry for his father, since the room hadn't been used before. Ricky didn't mind; it had everything he needed: a small desk and chair, a dresser, a closet and a bed. He put his clothes in the dresser and the closet and opened the boxes he'd brought, putting his sheet music on the desk, some small items on the dresser and his drum and guitar in the corner.

He'd tried to prove to Rick that he no longer felt that he should end his life and was grateful that he'd been prevented from doing so. But for now, at least, Rick watched him when he shaved and kept the blades in a location unknown to him. Ricky accepted it as a consequence of his actions for the time being.

Ricky lay on the bed, the soft, dusky light of sunset illuminating the ceiling. It was a nice apartment, he thought, but this could only be temporary. He would need to either face the house and its contents once again or he'd move into his own place close to his son. The decision was too daunting at the moment.

He heard the door to Rick's bedroom down the hall close. The sound was followed by the soft strains of a guitar shortly after. "Our son is always composin'," Ricky said out loud. "It's been a long time since I wrote a song. I dunno if I have it in me anymore. I can't find the music anymore."

His fingers passed over the wedding band on his left hand. "I miss you. I always thought I'd die before you. That's why I put so much money away for you and Ricky. I wanted to leave you with somethin'. I'm glad that he'll be taken care of when I go, but…aw, honey, if you were here, I'd put the world on a platter for you. What would I give for you to be next to me right now? What would I give just to know that you hear me? I love you. I'll always love you, I dun't care about 'til death do us part' or none of that. I love you, do you hear me? I love you…"

Ricky repeated the phrase a great number of times, as the sky outside turned dark and the room fell into blackness. As he fell asleep with the words on his lips, he didn't notice the silhouette of a blue jay sitting quietly on the ledge outside the window.


	3. Chapter 3

I.

When Ricky opened his eyes the next morning, the sun was streaming in through the window and the sounds of the traffic below threw him immediately into the memory of all the mornings he woke up in the New York apartment he'd shared with Lucy before they moved to Connecticut.

He sat up slowly and looked out the window, seeing the towering World Trade Center not too far off.

Ricky rose from bed, pulled a robe around himself, stepped into his slippers and walked out into the hall. Rick's bedroom door was open and Ricky heard sounds in the kitchen. He found his son sitting at the kitchen table, looking at a newspaper and eating cereal out of a small bowl.

Rick looked up. "Morning!"

Ricky smiled. "Good mornin'. Anythin' in the paper?"

Rick shook his head and started to stand. "The usual. Hungry?"

Ricky shrugged. He wasn't particularly hungry, although he knew he should eat. "Do you have any orange juice?"

Rick looked at his father before turning to open the refrigerator. "Yeah, I do, but I think you should have some actual food."

Ricky began looking in the cabinets to find a glass for his juice. "I'm not hungry, son. I just wanna put somethin' in my stomach. I'll eat some lunch later when we're out at the club, I promise."

Rick handed him the carton of juice, heartened that at least his father was talking about eating a future meal. It was progress. "Alright. I'm going to take a shower."

Ricky nodded as he poured some juice into the glass he'd found. He looked up to watch his son leave the kitchen. He turned around to look out the kitchen window, getting a view of the back porch and the alley below them. He turned again to look around the room as he sipped the juice. There was a pad with some writing on it hanging next to the phone on the wall. He walked over to it and skimmed over the lines of his son's handwriting, seeing the names of a few women along with their phone numbers.

He chuckled, then sighed. His son had grown from a sweet, adorable little boy to a good looking, good natured teenager and finally to the handsome, talented man he was today. He was at the stage of his life where he should be having fun and maybe finding a nice girl to settle down with, Ricky thought to himself.

As he heard the shower turning on from the bathroom down the hall, Ricky wandered into the living room, which was flanked by two more windows overlooking the city. There was a couch and two chairs, a coffee table and a television. A desk was in the corner. Sheet music with scribbled writing papered the top of the coffee table while the desk remained fairly clear. "You always hated that I sat on the floor and wrote music on the coffee table. I'm sorry that little Ricky picked up the habit," Ricky said quietly.

Ricky looked toward another corner of the room and saw a small end table that held some framed pictures. He walked over to it and looked at them. They were happy pictures of Rick at varying ages with his parents, with Fred and Ethel and with school friends. Ricky smiled as he sipped his juice again.

He turned to look out one of the windows and watched the people and cars below. They seemed small from his perspective and Ricky became aware of the height they were at. Unlike the modest brownstone in which Ricky and Lucy resided as a young couple, Rick was living in a newer high rise building. Unlike Ricky, who built his life from the ground up, Rick was fortunate to have been the beneficiary of a successful club. But it was his own talent and business acumen that allowed it to continue to thrive, Ricky reflected. And so it was with no small amount of pride that Ricky realized that he had achieved the fabled 'American Dream.' He had come to this country as a poor immigrant, become successful and had a family, and now his son was better off than he had been at his age.

II.

Ricky sat at one of the tables at the club, having endured all the members of Rick's orchestra approaching him to offer condolences and let him know that they were glad he was there. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the sentiments from them, since they'd all come to the funeral, and he knew he should be grateful for their care and concern. But he tired of hearing how sorry everyone was. If their sympathy could've brought Lucy back, there'd have been ten of her in front of him. He shook his head slightly, annoyed with himself for having feelings of bitterness about the sincere wishes of others.

As he watched Rick coordinate with the young men he had selected to work for him, Ricky remembered the way his once little son sat here and watched as he rehearsed with his own orchestra. He had observed intently as Ricky danced, sang and conducted. He read the music as the orchestra played and he had watched his father write at home. Eventually, Ricky remembered the day he pulled the little boy into his lap as they sat on the floor in the living room of the apartment and began to teach him how to read and write in the language of song. And as the boy began to sing in the mostly Spanish lyrics that his father wrote, he gradually learned that language, as well.

After a while, as Rick continued to rehearse, Ricky got up and began to wander the way he had done that morning in Rick's apartment. He made his way to the office he'd used when the club was his. Rick used a different room to work in, wanting to preserve his father's space rather than feel he was replacing him.

When Ricky came upon the old door that still bore his name, he pushed it open gently and switched on the light. The bulb on the ceiling hummed in a way that strangely comforted him. The room was clean, much more so than it had been when Ricky was there daily. The desk was where he'd left it, as was a framed photo of his wife that sat upon it. He walked over to the brick wall that ran across one end of the room, touching his hand to the cool surface. "If the walls could talk," he said aloud, grinning mischievously. He looked at Lucy's picture; it felt as though it had been so long since he'd seen the sparkling eyes and smile that were immortalized in that frame. Beautiful, though the picture hardly did her justice, he thought. She had to be seen to be believed.

Ricky walked back out to the hallway and spotted the stairs that were nearby. He heard the sweet sounds of Rick's music as they continued to rehearse in the ballroom and he smiled as he went slowly up the stairs.

Summer would be arriving soon, but in the meantime, a cool spring breeze greeted Ricky when he emerged onto the rooftop. He had so many memories of Lucy here that they all seemed to run together in his mind like a fast moving reel of film. He walked to the edge and looked over. Life was moving below him, but up on that roof, time stood still. The first time he had kissed Lucy was right where he was standing, underneath the moon on a warm city night. He looked up at the clouds that passed overhead. "Oh, Lucy. If only you knew how close I was to askin' you to marry me that night. But I couldn't exactly bring you back to that one crummy room I was livin' in…" Ricky laughed to himself. "There was only one thin' that room was good for. Every single time I left you, I had to do somethin' with the desire you left me with."

He turned and sat on the small bench that rested nearby. He patted it. It, too, had seen many a romantic, moonlit moment between him and his wife.

Ricky's eyes widened and he turned to look at the stairway when he heard the sound of frantic footsteps rushing up to the roof.

"Dad!" Rick was breathless as he stood looking at his father sitting on the bench.

Ricky stood up quickly. "What?!"

Rick blinked, seeing now that his father was simply sitting quietly, likely reminiscing. "I…what…I couldn't find you and one of the guys said you came up here and…" He stopped talking when he saw the grin on his father's face, tinged with sadness.

"You thought I was gonna jump off the roof?" Ricky posed the question as a joke, but the probable reality of the situation stung him.

Rick ran a hand through his hair. "C'mon, let's get some lunch."

Ricky followed his son back down the stairs to the club and to the orchestra, his ears catching the caw of the blue jay that had been perched, unseen, on a ledge.


	4. Chapter 4

I.

A week had passed since Ricky had come to stay with Rick in New York. Through the benefit of hindsight, Ricky was glad that his son had forced the move. Though he was still grieving, he was not immersed in the hopeless darkness which had prompted him to consider ending his life. And as much as he hated to admit it, being in the house, even with his son present, had been draining him emotionally. He could only imagine how those feelings might have progressed had he been there by himself.

Indeed, Ricky had a further wake-up call when a person in the building across the street made a similar attempt on his own life in the days after Ricky arrived. Thankfully, he had apparently been stopped by a cleaning woman who thought him not to be home. Ricky had been among the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered when the man was apparently taken away somewhere for "help."

When Ricky had wandered back up to the apartment, alone while Rick was at rehearsal (which had taken a great deal of convincing and assurance), he sat in the living room and realized how fortunate he was for his son. It would've been fairly easy for the young man to send his aging and, for a time, suicidal father to some institution. But the thought of doing so had never crossed Rick's mind. The stories of abuse and questionable treatments in mental facilities were notorious and yet, rarely discussed and never publicly exposed.

And so, Ricky came to view the incident as a reminder to him that he had much to live and be thankful for. The hole left in his heart in Lucy's absence would never heal, but at least it would not consume him.

After that first day alone and with the visible change in Ricky's demeanor, Rick softened his protective and constant watch over his father. He was more comfortable allowing Ricky to be alone in the apartment or to go out on his own. When he found himself torn between wanting to give his father some privacy when he shaved and his lingering reluctance to give him the razor blades, he gifted Ricky with an electric razor.

On this day, while Rick again spent the afternoon at rehearsal, Ricky made his way down to the street for a walk on what had developed into a beautiful, warm afternoon. He hadn't yet decided where he would walk to, but the city had a way of guiding one to a destination in its natural ebb and flow.

He observed the people as he walked up the block, rushing to the subway, popping into and out of the store front businesses, hailing taxis and sitting on the front stoops of the apartment buildings. He breathed in the aroma of the steamed hot dogs in the carts that seemed to be on every corner, swarmed by people who had only a few minutes to eat lunch before heading back to work.

Eventually, Ricky found himself coming upon Battery Park. At this time of day, it was full of people walking, bike riding and picnicking, due to its picturesque view of New York Harbor, located on the very edge of Manhattan. He smiled when he saw a man tossing a Frisbee to his dog and a young woman flying a kite not far off.

He walked to the railing that overlooked the water in the harbor. He glanced at some tourists nearby who were taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty.

Ricky continued walking, following the railing along the water, a jogger occasionally passing him. He grinned when he passed a young couple sitting on a blanket under a tree. They didn't seem to notice him or anything around them, being absorbed in what looked like the never ending kiss of young love. "To be that young again. I wish you were here and that we could go back to bein' that young again," Ricky said softly once he was out of the couple's earshot.

He reached the end of the park, where the island stopped at a point, the water outstretched in front of him. He sat on a bench and looked out, alone except for the small group of pigeons that hung around the benches, waiting for someone to come along with bread or popcorn for them. The occasional seagull would squawk as it flew over the open water. Some sort of bird was in the tree above him, occasionally releasing a caw of its own, but Ricky didn't pay any mind to it.

"What do you do with your days, honey? Maybe there are no days or nights in Heaven. Sometimes it feels like there are no days or nights here. Since you left, it's just been one long day. But it's gettin' a little better. We raised a good man. I dun't wanna live without you, but I'm learnin' how. Thin's will be different for me now. I'll get by. But I'd be lyin' if I said that I dun't go to bed every single night wishin' that you were in my arms. There's no cure for that. I would settle for one kiss or your hand in mine." Tears dotted Ricky's eyes. "A smile, even. I love you and I miss you."

II.

Rick walked into the darkened apartment, tired from his performance and ready for a shower. He stopped at his father's bedroom door, hoping to find him awake. He had gotten together some of Ricky's old orchestra members who still lived in the area, so he wanted him to come to rehearsal the following day to see them.

He stood in the open bedroom doorway and saw Ricky's sleeping figure in bed, the room dark except for the light of the street lamps casting a soft glow through the window.

Rick raised an eyebrow at what looked like the shadow of a bird of some sort which sat on the ledge outside the window. "Damn pigeons," he chuckled softly, heading to his own bedroom and resigned to speak with his father in the morning.

Ricky stirred in bed, the blue jay on the ledge sitting peacefully still.

 _Ricky looked around, finding himself on the roof of the club and wondering how he had gotten from the comfort of his bed to the chilly rooftop._

 _He looked over the ledge, finding a quiet street below, unusual for any time of day or night in New York. He turned suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder._

 _Ricky was faced with a pair of sparkling blue eyes, cherry red lips and flaming red curls. He was stunned breathless. She was so beautiful…ethereal even. And at least twenty-five years younger than she was the last time he saw her._

 _He wanted to tell her so much. Did she know how much he was missing her? Did she know how much he loved her? Before he could manage to vocalize any of his thoughts, she quieted him by slipping her hand gently into his. He closed his eyes, somewhat unwillingly because he wanted to look at her for as long as he could, yet reflexively as her lips fell against his. They were warm and soft and wonderful. How he had missed her kiss! He wanted to wrap his arms around her, to embrace her tightly and not let her go again. But as her lips withdrew from his, reluctantly, he sensed, the night breeze seemed to whisk her away from him._

Ricky's eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed, looking around and coming to the slow realization that he had never left the bed or his son's apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

I.

After Ricky had woken from his dream, he didn't sleep much for the rest of the night. Had Lucy really come to him, or was it the wishful thinking of his subconscious giving him exactly what he had asked for that afternoon? Was she real or was she a coping mechanism? He knew that he wanted to believe she was real, which meant that she still heard him and was still with him.

He spent much time looking at the ceiling as he contemplated. He had certainly had friends and family around him die before. But never, not ever, had he grieved or been so affected by death as he was by his wife's. Even when he was a child, when his father had passed away, death seemed more of an abstract idea. He had been saddened, but he and his mother and family needed to eat. The event had been more of a gateway to adulthood than it was a time to mourn. When Lucy had miscarried her first two pregnancies, he certainly mourned for the children they'd lost. But she had needed his strength and more than anything, he was glad that she had not died with them. When the Mertzes had passed away, first Fred, then Ethel, he mourned for their friendship. But he rationalized that they were older and such was life.

This was different. Each day, sometimes each moment, seemed to usher in a new stage of his grieving for Lucy. He had initially denied the truth of it. He had certainly been sad, depressed, angry and uncertain about his future. He had moments when he seemed to feel nothing at all. He had feelings of happiness when he was immersed in his memories of her, only to crash back into sadness when the memory ended and reality confronted him again, like the lights of a movie theater blinding him as the film ended.

By the time morning came, he had decided that his dream had to be real. His mind, alone, had never created such imagery in response to a traumatic event and he didn't believe it would start now. Lucy may not be physically beside him in the way that she always had been, but she was with him in a new way. The thought of it was more comforting to him than anything anyone had said to him in the last several weeks.

And so, with a renewed outlook on the day despite several sleepless hours, Ricky rose and went out to the hallway. It was still somewhat early and, having worked late into the night, Rick had not yet emerged from his bedroom.

Ricky went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He grinned. The contents looked similar to what Ricky himself had lived on when he was a single man on his own. A carton of orange juice, a loaf of bread, a container of milk, a package of bologna and a package of cheese. A box of cereal sat on the top of the refrigerator.

He went back to his room to dress.

II.

Rick rolled over in bed, trying to shield his eyes from the mid-morning sun that was invading his room. He took a deep breath, the aroma of what he recognized to be bacon and eggs rousing him further. "Do I HAVE bacon and eggs," he said out loud.

He slid out of bed and into a robe. As he did so, his eyes drifted out the window, where he saw a blue jay sitting on the ledge outside. It looked back at him quietly. Rick smirked. Pigeons were a usual visitor to most every window ledge in the city. But a blue jay? That was something he hadn't seen since leaving Connecticut. His gaze lingered on the bird as he made his way out to the hallway.

With the scent of breakfast stronger still, Rick went to the kitchen quietly. He raised his eyebrows when he saw his father at the stove, keeping guard over two frying pans.

Ricky hadn't heard his son approach and he nudged the eggs with a spatula to make sure they didn't burn. "This isn't easy. I'm sorry I made fun of you when we were first married. You turned into a good little cook…"

Rick tilted his head as he walked up next to his father slowly. "Dad?"

Ricky turned around quickly. "Oh, good mornin'!"

Rick smiled. "Where'd that food come from?"

Ricky chuckled, turning back to the stove. "I went to the store early. You din't have anythin' for breakfast 'sept cereal."

Rick's smile broadened. "You haven't wanted breakfast...for a while."

Ricky placed the eggs and bacon onto a plate. "I felt hungry this mornin'. Sit down, I made enough for you."

Rick turned to the toaster on the counter nearby, which had begun to make a humming sound. He knew that it did this when the toast was nearly finished, but Ricky looked at it and wondered if it was broken. His eyes widened when the toast popped out and Rick grabbed it in midair before sitting.

Ricky laughed softly as he put the plate in the center of the table.

Rick watched him sit. "Thanks for breakfast, Dad."

Ricky nodded. He felt it was about time he started returning to his role as a father to Rick. He thought he'd been remiss in those duties since Lucy passed. "You're welcome."

Rick ate gratefully. "Dad, I want you to come with me to the club today. Some of your guys are coming by to visit for rehearsal."

Ricky raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Who?"

Rick swallowed. "Marco is here from Florida. He came especially to see you because he missed the funeral…" He trailed off, regretting having made any mention of Lucy's funeral, fearing it would ruin his father's apparently good mood. He quickly moved on. "And Tony and Esteban are up from Jersey."

Ricky smiled. "Alright. Good!"

Rick looked at his plate, puzzled. His father's demeanor seemed to have changed overnight. He was glad, of course, but he wondered what had happened in such a short time.

III.

Ricky watched his son rehearse with the orchestra later that afternoon. He felt, at times, that he was watching himself. Rick's mannerisms, the meticulous ear he had for the music and his driving need for each piece to be as close to perfect as possible; they were all learned behaviors. Yet, as tough as he could be on his musicians, he was well liked and respected. It was an important balance which Ricky was glad his son recognized.

Ricky felt a hand on his shoulder and, for just a moment, he thought that when he turned, he'd be faced again with the sparkling blue eyes that had visited him the previous night. The voice that emanated from the visitor quickly put that idea to rest. "He looks like you up there, boss."

Ricky looked up slowly and smiled, rising to greet Marco. They clasped hands briefly before embracing each other. "It's good to see you, amigo." He motioned for Marco to sit beside him at the table. "Sit down!"

Marco sat beside him, grinning, but he became serious after a moment. "Ricky…I was…so sorry to hear about Lucy. How are you?"

Ricky nodded. "Thank you. It's been a very hard few weeks." He looked in his son's direction. "But he's takin' good care of me."

Marco looked at his old friend and fellow musician. They'd arrived in New York at practically the same time and they'd been friends since before Ricky had even met Lucy. In fact, he'd noticed Lucy himself on that first night when The Tropicana opened. But when he saw her dancing with Ricky later that same night and he observed the way Ricky looked at her and held her in his arms, he knew that an imminent marriage between them was already written in the books of their lives. He knew that Ricky's description of a "hard few weeks" was an understatement of great proportions.

Marco nodded finally in response to Ricky. "He was always a good kid. How's he doin'?"

Ricky narrowed his eyes, still looking at his son. On the surface, the question seemed easy enough to answer. But if he thought more deeply about it, he didn't know. That he knew of, Rick had cried exactly twice for his mother: on the day she died and on the day of her funeral. But Ricky had been so entombed in his own grief and depression that he hadn't noticed or encouraged his son to express the feelings of sadness that he was sure the young man had. This troubled him, but he answered Marco simply. "I think he's doin' alright."

In the next few moments of small talk about the weather in Florida and Marco's activities, the two were joined by their former bandmates, Tony and Esteban. They took to reminiscing about old times, their various travels on tour and musing about their current lives, all to the backdrop of Rick's music as the new bandleader continued to rehearse his own orchestra.

III.

When rehearsal had ended, Ricky left Rick at the club, having made plans to meet his friends again the following day for lunch. Rick had urged him to stay for the show, but he felt that he had to get back to the apartment and do something that had struck his heart.

Reluctantly, Rick watched him hail a taxi to head home. His father had had such a good day which had been highlighted by a genuine good humor that he hadn't observed since Lucy had passed. As Rick walked back to his dressing room to prepare for his performance, he hoped that this turn for the positive would continue.

When he walked into the room, he closed the door gently behind him and sat. Now that he felt that his father no longer needed so much of his strength and protection, he was starting to feel as though he may need some of it back in return. He wasn't sure why. He thought that time should be making the sting of his mother's death duller. Instead, it seemed to be nagging at him. He had been very aware throughout his life that his parents had wanted him very much, with that desire being made more poignant by the loss of the pregnancies that came before him. As a result, they had covered him with a type of protection and love that many of his friends growing up didn't seem to understand. His father manifested those feelings in the form of pride; he passed his talents and his language to his son along with his name and his bloodline. His mother was quintessentially maternal; she was protective to a fault, not only in the sense that she was always concerned for his physical safety, but in the way in which she sought to shield him from the harshness of life. There was pure love in everything she did for him, from birthday celebrations and Christmas mornings, to small things like after-school snacks and heartfelt bedtime embraces. And no one's mother was a bigger fan of their child at every performance, big or small, that he'd ever had in his life.

In that quiet room, by himself and without the need (real or perceived) to be strong for his father, Rick cried for his mother.


	6. Chapter 6

I.

When Ricky arrived back at the apartment after leaving the club, he removed his tie and loosened the collar of his shirt. He went to the living room and removed Rick's sheet music from the coffee table, stacking it neatly on the desk in the corner. He went to his room and picked up the guitar that stood in the corner next to his conga; both had gone untouched since he'd come back to New York and neither had been played since Lucy's death.

He looked at the guitar for a moment, his fingers smoothing over the strings, before carrying it back out to the living room, along with some of the unused music parchment that had been sitting on top of his own desk. He stuck a pencil gingerly over his ear.

Ricky sat on the floor in front of the coffee table with his guitar, something that took slightly more care and effort that it had when he was a younger man. He began to scratch some preliminary notes on the parchment and smiled gently. "You used to tell me that all my paper and pencils and thin's all over the table and the floor made a mess," he chuckled. "And when little Ricky started to imitate me, it only got bigger. But deep down, I think you din't mind. 'Specially when I was writin' somethin' for you."

He continued to write with the guitar on his lap in front of him, occasionally stopping to play what he'd written to see how it sounded so far. He tinkered with the notes, played again, continued writing and repeated the process throughout.

After two hours of laboring at the coffee table, Ricky played the entire song through on his guitar. He smiled, happy with the arrangement he'd composed.

But he wasn't through. Resting the instrument beside him, he went to work laying lyrics underneath the music. Historically, he wrote lyrics in Spanish and then sometimes translated them to English, especially if his agent or producers stressed the importance of appealing to his American audience. This time, he began writing in English from the beginning, as he had done the handful of times he'd written a song especially for his wife.

Ricky worked for an hour more on the lyrics. At the end of the song, in the blank space of parchment on the final page of the music, he signed his name with a flare, as was his custom on his original pieces. "I hope you like it," he said quietly.

Feeling tired from the lack of sleep the previous night, the long day and the work he'd just completed, Ricky stood up slowly and walked with his guitar to his bedroom, leaving the song on the coffee table.

II.

When Rick came home after his performance, he stopped to peak in at his father, who was again asleep in bed. He closed the door slightly and headed down the hall, stopping as he caught a glimpse of the living room. He raised an eyebrow because it seemed that all his sheet music was gone, replaced by a few neat pages in the center of the coffee table.

Rick glanced back at his father's room before walking into the living room and sitting on the couch, picking the pages up. He smiled when he realized what he was looking at. His father had come home and written a song! He wanted to get his guitar so he could play it, but he didn't want to wake Ricky.

Instead, he sat back on the couch and started to skim the lyrics. He read, mouth agape at the intensely personal and heartfelt words. He started to feel that perhaps he SHOULDN'T be reading it, regarding it as a private love note from a heartsick man to a woman who could not be his. And yet, he couldn't STOP reading it. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever read and he hadn't even heard the music yet.

When he had finished, Rick set the song back down on the coffee table and sat quietly in the dimly lit room. He knew that his father loved his mother. It had never been a secret. And the way Ricky had been grieving for her could only be born of a deep seeded romance which he never believed would end. But to see it in words, in black and white, definitive terms was something different. Perhaps it was because Rick had not yet been in love, but he almost couldn't get his mind to understand how one person could feel so incomplete without the other.

III.

When morning came and Ricky sat up in bed, squinting at the light, he sighed. He had hoped to have another dream of Lucy in the night, but none that he remembered arrived. It was alright, he thought. She was with him. He believed that.

He rose from bed, planning to make breakfast for his son again. As he reached to open the bedroom door, he heard the lovely sound of Rick's guitar, playing what Ricky recognized to be the lilting notes of the song he'd written the night before. He walked out to the hall and followed the music into the living room.

Ricky paused in the entryway, smiling and watching his son play the music of the song that lay out on the coffee table in front of him.

Hearing the small creak in the floor that Ricky's footsteps had made, Rick stopped playing and looked up. "I hope you don't mind me playing your song."

Ricky shook his head and walked the rest of the way into the room, sitting beside his son on the couch. "No, I dun't mind. Do you like it?"

Rick looked down at the music. "I think it's incredible." He turned to his father. "You should record it, Dad."

Ricky scoffed. "No, I'm retired. Anyway, my voice doesn't sound as good as it used to."

Rick set his guitar down. "That's not true, Dad, you could record that song and it would be amazing. You could write harmonies for the instruments in the orchestra and make an arrangement."

Ricky looked at his son, whose eyes were bright and full of ideas. "You could sing it…"

Rick shook his head vigorously. "No. There's no way that song would have the same meaning with me singing it. It wouldn't be the same. You wrote it, you feel it. You need to be the one to sing it."

Ricky sighed. "I just wrote it to get the feelin's out, son. I wrote it for your mama. She knows I wrote it."

Rick took the pages into his hand. "Don't you think she'd want to hear it?"

Ricky took the music from Rick. He looked at the notes and the lyrics for a moment, then back at his son. It seemed very important to him that Ricky record this song.

With the pages still in his hand, Ricky stood up slowly and walked to the phone that hung in the kitchen.

Rick watched him dialing, wondering what his next move was.

With the phone to his ear, Ricky stood waiting before a smile crossed his face. "Buenos dias, amigo! Mira, se que ibamos a cumplir para el almuerzo. Pero puede traer Tony y Esteban, y nos vemos en el club en su lugar?"

Rick tilted his head, hearing his father's request to what must've been Marco on the phone.

Ricky nodded. "Si, si. Que bueno, gracias. Nos vemos." He hung up the phone and smiled at Rick.


	7. The Final Chapter

I.

Marco, Tony and Esteban stayed in New York several days longer than they had originally planned. They hadn't expected that Ricky would have a project for them to work on with him. In fact, Ricky didn't expect it, either. But once he had written the song and gotten started with the process of seeing it through to a final product, it had to be done and it demanded nothing less than Ricky's signature drive for perfection.

In just under forty-eight hours and with Rick's help, Ricky had written harmonies and arrangements of the song for the entire orchestra and a variety of instruments. He used his former bandmates to assist him in rehearsing Rick's musicians. He'd even written two parts of the music for two different pianos, allowing Marco to play in duet with Rick's pianist.

After an exhausting push to finish the writing and perfect the music, they parted ways at three o'clock in the morning the night before the recording session that Rick had scheduled at the studio which had signed him for his own work.

When Rick and his father arrived at the apartment, Rick ran a hand through his hair and tugged at his shirt collar in what was very much Ricky's way. "Are you going to bed, Dad? We have a really busy afternoon coming up."

Ricky nodded, tired. "Yes, but I wanna give you somethin' before I do." He went to his room, leaving Rick in the hall to wonder what he had for him.

When he returned, he carried some fresh sheets of music and handed them to Rick. Rick looked at them with wide eyes. "What's this?"

Ricky shrugged with a smirk. "I wrote a second guitar part. So you could play with me. You know, like I did with the piano for Marco."

Rick looked at his father. "Really?"

Ricky chuckled. "Of course!"

Rick looked back over the music. "Why didn't you show me before? We should rehearse it…"

Ricky shook his head. "I've been teachin' you for your whole life, you dun't need to rehearse. Besides me, no one is better at this than you."

Rick smiled. "Mom was right, you're a ham."

Ricky laughed and embraced his son.

II.

The next day, when Rick and Ricky arrived at the studio, they were met by the orchestra and a good number of studio technicians in a very large soundproof room. Rick moved about, seeing to different matters, largely unaffected by what went on around him. He had recorded here on several occasions.

But Ricky looked around in awe. It had been ten years since he'd formally recorded anything and in that time, much had changed about the business of making records.

Rick called to him with a smile. "Dad, come here, I want you to meet someone."

Ricky walked toward his son and another young man with long hair which was tied back; he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, attire which was much different than the standard formality of days gone by.

Ricky shook the man's hand as Rick introduced him. "Dad, this is Jeff Collins. He produced my last record, he's very good."

Jeff grinned, shaking Ricky's hand eagerly. "Your son is VERY talented, so I jumped at the opportunity to work with you, Mr. Ricardo…"

For all the confidence Ricky had in his own talents, he was humbled by Jeff's compliment. "Well, thank you." He looked around again at the large room with its microphones hanging strategically from the ceiling and the dark colored foam-like material that coated the walls. "It's been so long since I recorded anythin'. Everythin's so different…"

Rick and Jeff grinned at each other before Rick turned back to his father. "Are you ready?"

Ricky took a breath. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Let's get going!" Jeff was enthusiastic and headed through a nearby door and into a control room, where he could be seen through a large window along with several other technicians.

Rick turned to his orchestra and spoke quietly. "Guys, just like we rehearsed, alright?" He picked up his guitar and stood beside his father, sheets of music laid out in front of them. "You ok, Dad?"

Ricky looked at the microphone that was positioned above him. He had thrown himself into his work with this song over the last few days. So much so that until this moment, the reason that he'd written it had been somewhat lost. The gravity of what had prompted him to quietly sit in his son's empty apartment with only his guitar and a pencil descended upon him now. He had not anticipated that the simple act of writing the song would lead to a full orchestral arrangement and a professional recording.

Rick positioned his fingers on the strings of his guitar, his eyes fixed on his father, recognizing that he was about to give a signal to the orchestra to begin. In the corner of his eye, he saw the light near the control room illuminate, a sign that they had begun recording.

The room was still as Ricky raised his hand, the only thing to be heard was the nearly imperceptible sound of the instruments being raised along with it.

When Ricky lowered his hand to the beat that he'd been following in his mind, the room filled with the soft sound of strings in harmony with unmistakable brass and rich piano. Another layer of sound circled them when Ricky and his son added their guitars, in compliment to one another.

Rick's eyes remained focused on the music in front of him, occasionally glancing at Ricky as he followed his lead. But his smile widened, the sound of his father's voice filling him with the sort of happiness they hadn't experienced since Lucy's death; it was as powerful and smooth as it had always been.

 _The sun keeps rising in the morning_

 _The stars keep shining in the night_

 _The world keeps moving_

 _And it's leaving me behind_

 _Where will I be_

 _Without those eyes_

 _What will I do_

 _Without your touch_

 _How will I live_

 _Without you_

 _My heart keeps beating every day_

 _The blood keeps running through my veins_

 _And I wanted it to stop_

 _So I could be with you_

 _Where will I be_

 _Without those eyes_

 _What will I do_

 _Without your touch_

 _How will I live_

 _Without you_

 _But you keep going on with me_

 _You keep speaking to my heart_

 _You are in my dreams_

 _And in the blue bird on my shoulder_

 _Those eyes are still here_

 _With me_

 _I feel your warmth_

 _On my skin_

 _I will live on_

 _Until I see you again_

Ricky's voice faded, then the guitars, the brass and the pianos, until only the strings held one last, longing note. When Rick looked up into the control room, Jeff and the other technicians sat open mouthed, hypnotized by what they'd just heard. The light near them was still lit, indicating that Jeff hadn't even stopped recording yet.

Rick smiled, putting a hand on his father's shoulder. "How was that, Jeff?"

Jeff seemed to snap out of his stupor, moving his hands over the switches in front of him. "Uh..that's a print, Rick…"

III.

Ricky slipped into bed that night, feeling rejuvenated by the experience of creating music again. Jeff had said that it could be a platinum single many times over. But that wasn't why Ricky had written it or recorded it.

He lay on his back, his hands folded on his chest, looking at the ceiling which had, by now, become very familiar to him. "I hope you like it, my angel. It's still hard to live without seein' you and touchin' you ever day. But I still love you every day, like always. I think I'm ready to look for a place of my own nearby. There's a nice apartment building right up the block. I wanna stay near little Ricky. I know you loved the house, honey, but…I think it's right to sell it, dun't you? To a young family. Like we were…"

As he drifted to sleep, he thought he caught the scent of his wife's soft perfume near him.

And the blue jay was nestled amongst the shadows of the ledge overlooking the city.


End file.
